The Runaway Island Mystery: The Mysteries of Whisper Bay, #2

By Julie R. Neidlinger

Sometimes the kitchen sink can get you in trouble.

 

Helene, Marta, Jimmy, Charles, and Violet put their best detective skills to use when they discover that the strange people seen around town and at the farm hold a bigger secret than they could have imagined. They are not who they say they are, and are up to no good.

 

With the help of a kitchen sink, a wandering cat, and God-given help to face down a big storm on the lake, the gang discovers that with incredible courage and creative thinking, they might get a new friend and change his life forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lone Prairie Art Works
• Release date: Mar 25, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224388455

Julie R. Neidlinger

Julie R. Neidlinger is an artist, writer, and private pilot from North Dakota. She has loved Jesus since she was a small girl. She enjoys reading, especially mysteries.

Book preview

The Leafy Hideout

The waves of water were almost over my head, rising like a tower. They crashed into our canoe and while it wasn’t exactly a hurricane, it seemed close enough.

Gripping even tighter to my paddle, wood splinters digging into the palm of my hand, I heard Charles let out a yell. He was probably as terrified as I was. I hoped he was still in the canoe, but I couldn’t turn around to look back or I’d fall out myself. Digging the paddle deep into the water with all my strength, I prayed we’d both make it home alive.

It was hard to believe it had all started on such a warm and sunny summer afternoon when I was safe on solid ground, debating with Dad about a chainsaw. That seemed like forever ago, instead of just two weeks.

After the events of The Crossword Puzzle Mystery, my parents decided I needed a few more chores to keep me busy so I didn’t get into trouble. I wasn’t officially grounded, but they were strongly suggesting that I not go into town to see Marta, Jimmy, and the Goldmans, preferring I stick around the farm a bit.

That’s a lot of trees, Dad.

Bushes.

It’s going to take forever.

You will still have several months of summer vacation left even when you’re done with this project.

Could I have your chainsaw?

They’re just bushes. You don’t need the chainsaw. The clipper will work fine.

But I could do a lot of damage with the chainsaw, I said, thinking how much faster it would be if I just charged in with the thing and mowed down swaths of wayward branches.

That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.

Dad had a fair point. And chainsaws were heavy.

But it was hot and there wasn’t much breeze and the bugs and mosquitoes were bad and I’d do just about anything to make the job go faster. The lilacs and caraganas had seemingly had a growth spurt in the trees behind the machine shop. Dad wanted me to trim them back.

Trudging into the trees, the heavy clipper banging against my ankles, all I could do was sigh. After the excitement of the past weeks, spending the next few afternoons cutting back branches sounded boring.

By the first evening, when Mom called us all to supper, I could barely lift my arms. My face had little scratches from the caragana branches, and I had a new hole in my jeans. I was pretty quiet at the table, and though I didn’t complain because Mom wouldn’t allow that, I think Dad knew I was disappointed with my new set of chores.

The next morning, while I was back in the trees with the clippers getting slivers and making piles of branches and old logs, I heard a loud bang from the machine shop. This was the building we had our clubhouse in, an old shop Dad didn’t use much anymore and had allowed me to turn the upstairs into a clubhouse.

There shouldn’t be anyone in there, I thought. I dropped the clippers and took off at a run, tripping over a log and landing face-first in the damp leaves.

It felt kind of nice down there in the cool dampness, though I didn’t want to look too hard at what might be crawling around. The sweat on my neck and back had done little to drown the flies that were pestering me, but down on the ground it seemed as if I’d given them the slip.

I could just take a nap right here, I thought, resting my head on my forearm, forgetting about the noise in the shop for the moment.

Lene!

That was Dad’s come-here voice.

Pushing myself up off the ground, my arms screaming out that they were tired, I trudged to the entrance of the shop. Dad was standing by the door.

You’ll want to go see what Albert put in your clubhouse, he said.

Albert was our hired man, and he was a bit of fun, though not in a typical way. Not much of a talker, he seemed to like doing things to help out kids. Running up the stairs, I walked into the clubhouse room just in time to see Albert shift to one side and stand in front of something.

What did you put in here? I asked, trying to peer around him. He was a big guy.

Your dad said you wanted this, he said, stepping aside to show me what he’d attached to a metal shelf.

A CB radio! I’d asked Dad if he had an extra one. I wanted to use it to communicate with Marta and Jimmy so I didn’t get into trouble so much with Mom for being on the phone.

Now, until they have one, it won’t be all that useful to you, Dad said. He’d followed me up the stairs and was standing behind me. But it is set up and I had Alfred connect it to the old tower. You should be able to hear people talking.

Not that there are many people talking out here, Alfred grumped. For a non-talker himself, he seemed strangely disappointed. He might be right, though. I figured it would be mostly farmers, and not as interesting as the conversation I heard when I rode with Dad in the truck out on the highway where we could hear truck drivers and other people talking.

This doesn’t mean you’re done with your tree trimming, Dad reminded me.

I nodded. But I was so excited to come out to the clubhouse and turn on the CB and find out all kinds of news from people filling the airways. One of our mystery club's weaknesses was communication. I was thrilled with the CB, but I’d had another idea as well and I needed Albert’s help. I hoped Dad hadn’t burned him out on clubhouse installations. Once I got the tree project done, I’d ask him.

The next hour was me cutting branches, dodging the falling ones, and dreaming about all the excitement that was going to come from hearing a random secret message on the CB which would lead to buried gold and my photo on the front page of the newspaper.

Sometimes it takes a wild imagination to make it through hard work. The trees on the farm were like a wild wood, stretching from the lake all the way south to where there was a ravine and drop-off. It was all our property, but so hilly and uneven that it wasn’t good for much unless Dad decided to fence it in and run the livestock through. I never offered that as an idea, though, because the last thing I wanted to do was spend weeks helping him put up the fence.

Daydreaming made the time go faster.

I was so caught up in the daydream that I tripped over a rotten log, one that was so old it was covered in a white slimy fungus. Trying to catch myself and avoid another fall, I tumbled through a thick patch of branches into a small clearing, landing on my knees. A slight tearing sound informed me I had another hole in my jeans. Mom was going to be busy patching these pants when this was all done. Brushing off the dirt, I took a look around.

How did I not know this was here? I wondered, glancing around what seemed to be a leafy cave, so thick that the sun had trouble poking through. It almost looked as if the trees had gotten together and asked the bushes to make a little house.

Even though I used the shortcut paths that trailed through our woods, I’d never bothered to go into the trees directly behind the shop very much because Dad was right, the trees and bushes were too thick. It had been years since anyone had given them any attention.

But as I stood there, hidden but in a little clearing, I felt a little excited. All along, there had been this hidden place. A secret hideout. A lair.

Finding a new hiding spot has an interesting effect on your work ethic. What had been a chore turned into an adventure. Instead of doing work, I was cutting through an undiscovered jungle toward fame and fortune.

Taking a closer look at the leafy cave to figure out which branches needed to be cut back and which ones to leave so the roof stayed in place, I got to work with the clippers. I was going to clear the trees alright, but when I was done, I’d have another secret place.

You can never have too many hideouts.

It took me a couple of days, but by Thursday night, when I heard Mom calling me to supper, things looked wonderful. The hideout was amazing, and I didn’t think Dad could say a bad word about the clean out job I’d done elsewhere.

From Dad’s point of view, there was a tidy pile of branches and logs neatly stacked, proof I’d cleaned out something. That pile of wood would be great for summer bonfires, so in a way, I would benefit from my satisfying hard work.

From anyone else’s point of view, not too much had changed except maybe a slight space between the bushes and the machine shop walls. But if you knew where to look and where to go, it was a doorway to another world.

From the back door of the machine shop, which was directly below the clubhouse office, I’d created a hidden path to the clearing. I figured we could easily slip out the back door of the shop, through the path, and right into our outside meeting room. It wasn’t far from the other paths through the trees, but it was well hidden. Considering the number of evergreens in the mix, I was fairly certain that even in the winter it wouldn’t be easy to see, though it certainly wouldn’t have the canopy it had during the summer.

I had even dragged several old wooden crates to the domed clearing, creating what could be chairs or shelves or even walls. I couldn’t wait to show Marta and Jimmy, and maybe even the Goldman kids if they wanted to be part of the group. We could have a lot of fun in those trees, maybe even set up a tent or two and camp out there sometime.

But only if Dad, and any non-mystery club member, didn’t find it. A hideout isn’t a hideout if everyone knows about it.

I was feeling very pleased but the funny thing was that I had no idea how true that statement was. I had no idea how much we’d come to rely on that secret hideout in the coming days. It was going to be a matter of life and death, or very close to it.

Everything And The Kitchen Sink

On Friday, the scrap metal truck came around to the farm.

Alfred said that back in the day, over in England, they used